


The Summer After the Funeral

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Marauders' Era, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-12
Updated: 2006-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything about Sirius was strange and paradoxical, and had always had odd effects on his breathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Summer After the Funeral

The last of the guests Flooed away, and Remus began straightening the parlor. He did it by hand, the way his mother would have, gathering up knives and spoons, half-eaten plates of almost-stale sponge cake, and room temperature cups of tea.

The room smelled of too many people in too small a space in the late June heat, of lilies and burnt coffee, where once it had only smelled of furniture polish and his mother's perfume. The thought that it would never smell that way again--that he wouldn't be there even if it did--made his stomach clench, and he dropped the handful of plates he'd been cradling absently.

A murmured word from Sirius set them drifting harmlessly to the floor, no mess to speak of, and he turned, smiling gratefully, the expression feeling strange on his face, like the ill-fitting suit--his father's--he was still wearing.

"Come on," Sirius said. "You don't have to stay here tonight."

"Sirius--"

"I'll have you back in time tomorrow to hand the keys over to the estate agent. Promise." Sirius's hand was warm and comforting on his shoulder, and it made breathing both harder and easier in some strange, paradoxical way, but then, everything about Sirius was strange and paradoxical, he thought, and had always had odd effects on his breathing.

"Okay." He nodded slowly but didn't move. "Okay," he said again. "And Sirius?" Sirius raised one elegant eyebrow. "Thanks."

*

Remus never could remember the ride back to Sirius's flat. He had a vague recollection of a cool evening breeze in his hair, of stars coming out from behind shredding wisps of clouds in the darkening sky, of the scent of spring in Sirius's hair, the scent of leather on his skin as he buried his face against Sirius's back and hung on for dear life, the roar of the engine making it impossible to talk (though he knew Sirius usually charmed the noise away), and the wet sting of tears he could blame on the wind if there'd been anyone around to see.

When they arrived, Sirius led him up the stairs and into the bedroom, shucking his leather jacket before his hands--long white elegant fingers with perfectly trimmed nails--pushed the suit jacket off Remus's shoulders, worked slowly, methodically at the tiny buttons on Remus's shirt.

Remus sucked in a shuddering breath and Sirius was there with his handkerchief, snowy white and smelling of lint and leather. When Remus was done, Sirius leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, his eyes clear and still as lake water at dawn.

"Okay?"

Remus swallowed the last forlorn remnants of his tears and nodded. "Okay."

"We can--I can--I'll sleep on the sofa if you--"

Remus clutched at him, too desperate not to be left alone to even be ashamed of his need. "No, please."

Sirius brushed his newly trimmed fringe back from his forehead and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and dry, and Remus choked back another sob, remembering. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He was eighteen, a man now. He wasn't going to make more of an idiot of himself than he already had.

"Come on, Moony. Let's go to bed."

He washed his face and brushed his teeth like an automaton, and curled up under the covers of Sirius's messy bed, shivering, even though it was warm in the flat. The sheets smelled of Sirius's expensive sandalwood soap and damp dog, a combination that should have been revolting, but was mostly comforting, because it was familiar, and in a way, home, but nothing of his parents or the house he'd grown up in.

Sirius slid in beside him and Remus turned to look at him, all white and black and grey in the dim light filtering in from the street. He put a hand on Sirius's cheek, cool and stubbly, and pulled him close for a goodnight kiss.

They'd never discussed what would happen when they left Hogwarts, if they would keep on with doing this, or if it was just a phase. Remus was pretty sure it wasn't, at least, not for him, but the past two weeks had been so hectic, and just now he couldn't deal with losing Sirius on top of everything else.

The kiss was full of hunger, desperation, fierce and sharp, begging for everything he couldn't ask for with words.

Sirius understood, rolled on top of him, already reaching for the lube in the night table drawer. He bent Remus's legs back, spread him open wide, and took his time about it. He was rough and demanding, and Remus was grateful, knowing he would break if he were gentle. When they were done, Remus curled up against him, and slept.

*

After he packed up all his worldly possessions (one trunk of books and records, one record player, one small suitcase of clothing, one refurbished Cleansweep bought when he'd fantasized he could actually try out for the house team), and turned over the keys to his parents' house, he was at loose ends.

He had anticipated having a whole summer to find a job, had letters of recommendation from both Dumbledore and McGonagall, though he knew they wouldn't counteract the letter from the Werewolf Registry he was also obliged to provide to potential employers. Now he was alone in the world, except for his friends, and while he was grateful for Sirius's unending, unquestioning generosity, he chafed at living on sufferance.

After the first week of lolling listlessly on Sirius's sofa, he set about trying to find a job in Muggle London. He had no skills to recommend him, but he had an unholy passion for music, though he was rather tone-deaf himself, and when he wasn't looking for work or having sex with Sirius, he spent his time in the nearest record shop, engaging in passionate discussions over whether The Jam's version of "David Watts" was any good (it was), whether the Beatles would ever reunite (unlikely, and God save them from Wings), and whether the Stones could still be relevant in a punk world ( _Some Girls_ was a good start, and hopefully Keith would stay out of jail).

At night, Sirius brought in takeaway or they met James and Lily down the pub for dinner, trying to pretend they weren't living in the shadow of a war.

He and Sirius still hadn't discussed what they were doing, and part of him was afraid that if they did, it would all disappear, nebulous as the glow of fairy lights on a foggy evening, but the rest of him--the part that liked defined boundaries and clear-cut edges, the part that made him keep his books in alphabetical order by author (and chronologically within each author's body of work) and dream of being a Muggle scientist, studying the moon and the stars and the planets--wanted to know just what they had, and if it had any kind of future at all.

Three weeks into summer, Stuart, the bloke who owned the record shop, asked Remus to take on the afternoon shift at the register, since he was there all the time anyway, and the girl who'd been working there had left to get married. With his first paycheck, he bought takeaway, a new copy of _Bitches Brew_ (James had used the last one as a frisbee, with disastrous results), and a newspaper.

"What's this?" Sirius asked the next morning, leaning against the counter and flipping through the now marked-up paper with a puzzled frown. "And don't say a newspaper."

"Now that I've a job, I thought I'd start looking for a flat of my own. Or a bedsit at least. Get out of your hair."

Sirius went still, which was unusual enough to make Remus look up from his tea, wary.

"You're leaving me?"

"What?" Now it was his turn to hold still and hope the predatory gleam in Sirius's eye passed over him without inflicting too much damage.

"You're leaving me. Found someone new at that record shop, haven't you?" Remus gaped in shock, but Sirius had built up a head of steam now and couldn't be stopped. "Don't think I haven't noticed that all you talk about lately is Stuart this and Stuart that, and the sun rises and sets on bloody fucking Stuart." He flung the newspaper onto the table, where it crinkled and fluttered forlornly.

"Sirius, I--" Remus took a sip of tea to fortify himself before continuing. "I just thought you might've got tired of having me here. I burn the toast, I kick off the blankets, and I don't have a bloody knut to my name. Stuart is my boss, that's all."

"No doubt he hired you to have his wicked way with you!"

Remus choked on a mouthful of tea at that. "I really don't think--"

Sirius paid no attention. He loomed over Remus and started to shout. "I don't care that you burn the toast, or that you don't have any money. And you're a fucking furnace, Moony, so I don't need the bloody blankets _as long as you're here_." He was flushed from yelling and his breathing was rapid, ragged.

Remus stared at him for a long moment, opened and closed his mouth on a thousand different things he could have said that wouldn't matter, and said the one thing that did.

"Git." He stood, reached over, and pulled Sirius close for a kiss. "I'm not leaving," he said against Sirius's hot, desperate mouth. "Not until you want me to go."

"Never," Sirius said before kissing him back.

To Remus, it had all the weight of a vow.


End file.
